


Tequila Sunrise

by chantefable



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Character Study, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 14:53:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3733033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chantefable/pseuds/chantefable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco Malfoy's séjour on the island of Tenerife takes an unexpected turn with the arrival of a young English witch.</p><p>ADW: 51/25</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tequila Sunrise

Her name is Rose.

It's a reckless, dangerous thing, and therefore too much to resist. Her name is Rose, and that's the extent of Draco's knowledge: she is a stranger, a perfect stranger who leaves him breathless, gasping for air in the liquid heat of Bajamar, thick and scalding like coffee.

Her hair is wild, like a flaming halo, and Draco finds himself wanting to sink his fingers in those tresses, dark blond tinged with red, to comb them and bury his face in them until he chokes on the sweet scent of roses. 

Roses, English roses; that's the scent trailing behind her like a wisp of magic, announcing her presence before Draco can hear her soft footsteps on the terrace, but not soon enough for him to compose himself and be able to greet her with anything but a foolish, boyish flush on his cheeks.

It has been two weeks and his face bears traces of sunburn that no Sun-Block Charm could prevent. Even his skull has a rosy hue: too few of his hair remained faithful to his scalp and he has cropped it short, nothing but a pale grey fuzz on his head now. 

But Rose's wicked hazel eyes never linger at the frown lines around his eyes or his pitiful hair. (Vain. He is so very vain.) No, Rose's gaze cuts straight through him – it's like she sees everything, loneliness and weariness, and that pathetic boredom that has lured him away from his empty home to Tenerife – and yet she does not dismiss him. Instead, the warmth of her presence and conversation stays with Draco long after the scent of roses is gone, long after Rose has disappeared into the shimmering evening, chasing whatever those who are young and full of purpose and desire are chasing after.

Draco knows that his hands shake slightly when he mixes her a cocktail – Tequila Sunrise, the colour warm and bright like the sundresses she favours. They talk, and she savours her drink while Draco's eyes feast on her rounded rosy cheeks and mischievously glinting eyes.

And then she is gone.

The stars are glimpses of gold in the pulsing blue of the night, and the cool breeze does not soothe Draco's agitation, does not stop the fire raging through him. It's a forgotten, exquisite feeling: like he wants something, like he's waiting for something to happen. 

Draco has almost forgotten this kind of bright, hot hope. 

Hope is a strange thing, Draco thinks, breathing the fragrant air and peering into the quiet darkness. Hope passed through his life like a blazing comet, returning at the best and the worst of times: when he was released from custody; when Astoria was expecting Scorpius; when his entire world was ending, cracking and crumbling as the Dark Lord prepared his reign; when he was a child, confident and carefree; when they left England, the three of them, mother and father and Draco, to start a new life in Slovenia, a life that grew on Draco like moss grows on a tree stump. Hope flashed through Draco, time and time again, when he thought he might fall in love with Astoria and when he thought she might love him. And then it faded, slowly but surely, until his life was nothing but murky boredom and a haze of bitterness, every today as bleak as the cold yesterdays and dead tomorrows. 

He forgot how to promise and how to believe in promises. He had nothing but dull work as a freelance researcher for the International Confederation of Wizards, a pathetic excuse for an occupation without an ounce of passion. He analysed trade reports, as dry and hopeless (helpless) as he himself had become, until his marriage became a dusty footnote to the story of a faded past, just like his childhood home, his ambitions, and the glory of the Malfoy name. 

He forgot wanting, for that way lay madness, and sanity was the last thing Draco had left.

But now, he wants to map the freckles scattered over Rose's face and cleavage with his hungry mouth. He wants to lock his hands in the small of her back, anchoring himself to her. He wants to clutch her in his arms when she's passing by, all fresh and earnest, and pull her into a blinding kiss. He wants.

They see each other every day: sometimes at meals, sometimes in the hotel corridors, sometimes in strange, unfamiliar places that Draco only dares venture to hoping to find the now-familiar hazel eyes and full lips, to hear the rich sound of Rose's laughter. (She makes him remember how to be charming and agreeable, how to talk to a person whom one wants to keep by one's side for a heartbeat longer.) Every time he is near her, Draco wants to be drunk on the groans he could make escape Rose's lips, on the warmth of her small hands that he would press to his racing heart, on the feel of her hair that would tumble down and slide across his flushed face.

He wants to make love to Rose, the kind of love that tears a man to shreds, leaves one panting, broken, and muttering curses. The kind of love that scatters one's wits. 

Perhaps Draco's wits have already been scattered by the mischievous breeze, leaving him disoriented like an old haunted ship without a map or a compass or a destination.

Because right now Draco is already lost: he is lost here, sitting on the terrace with Rose, barefoot and tipsy, their bodies leeching the warmth that lingers in the white, polished wood from a day's worth of merciless sunshine. He is lost in a labyrinth of dreams, mesmerized by the delicate, warm place between Rose's collar bones, that tiny hollow which would be perfect for drinking her sweat. It would taste like hope, like desire, like a future Draco had forgotten to wish for. He is lost, and he wants Rose to lose herself, too, so that one day they may find each other on the warm, soft sand of the beach, with the waves licking their feet.

Draco's lost and barely able to force himself to care, the memory of Scorpius' stilted conversation and reluctant hugs as distant as that of Astoria's good-bye note, as the hum of the ocean, as the days when he thought himself vibrant and sharp and resilient.

When Draco is alone in his hotel room, the sheets cool and the air hot against his skin, he wants to mutter curses because this crazy rush that has overwhelmed him so thoroughly seems to be endless. It's an infatuation that won't fade, a horrible hangover from having had a taste of youth and homeland. Neither are quite what he remembers them to be, and yet they are sweet, so sweet.

They are Rose.

Draco's breath is coming hard and heavy through his nose when he touches himself. He wants to touch Rose instead, to touch her everywhere, but she is out of reach – dancing somewhere, walking with friends, watching time trickle by as she takes this short respite from her no doubt busy, brilliant, strange life. She would be out of Draco's reach even if she were here, with him, under him, tangled in his sweaty sheets.

At dawn, Draco watches the horizon with dry, bloodshot eyes, his body aching from the lack of sleep and sex, and he sees Rose's round face bloom in the sky instead of the sun.

He doesn't wish to be in Maribor, in his quiet simulacrum of a home. He wishes to stay here forever, or as long as Rose stays here. He wishes for the latter to be an eternity. Just the suffocating heat with a hint of salt, and Rose's voice and glimpses of her life in fluid conversation over long drinks, and hope, and desire, and every sunrise making Draco's blood finally run faster and hotter in his veins.

Apparently, Tenerife is Draco's heaven, even if it's as hot as hell and has brought him the kind of agony that is keener than anything he could have imagined a month, a year, a lifetime ago.

The days blend and blur, so alike that time becomes nearly transparent, like tendrils of cigar smoke that Draco puffs into fantastic shapes on the terrace. He is almost soothed by the steady keenness of his yearning, so used to the want pooling in his stomach that when one evening Rose pauses her account of a Christmas trip to Muggle London, hunting for presents for countless cousins, and presses her warm lips to Draco's in a tingling kiss, he is shocked and terrified. He tastes Rose's tongue and cannot for the life of him remember how long either of them has been here. 

It has always been August, it has always been Tenerife, it has always been Rose blooming in front of his eyes. 

Draco is hungry, craving touch, and shivers wildly when Rose gropes him through his thin linen clothes, her nails sinking into the bare, burnt skin of his neck like sharp thorns.

Distantly, Draco is aware of the highball glass slipping out of his fingers, alcohol splashing out on the wooden planks of the terrace. He is aware that they are in the open, their figures stark against the sunset, and anyone could see them, pulling at each other's clothes with single-minded desperation. The sky shifts between yellow, orange, and red before darkness swallows the light, and Draco comes to his senses sprawled under Rose, wide-eyed and breathless, his balls drawn tight from the heady scent of her velvety skin and the warm press of her body atop of his.

She wants him, she takes him, and it's such a relief to have the decision taken out of his hands. Draco moans, his shoulder blades aching from being pressed into the floor, and relishes the sweetness of Rose's thighs bracketing his flanks, the zest of her tongue swirling around his earlobe until he is gasping and shaking. Draco feels unbearably alive, and he _wants_ so much it's unbelievable.

When they finally stumble into bed, naked and panting, and Rose grasps his swelling cock to have it inside her, Draco's world narrows to the steady thrum of the heat: the air, his blood, Rose on him, Rose around him. His heart is full with the beauty of this moment, which is so much more than wandering lips and roaming hands.

Sated, they slip into sleep, and Draco dimly thinks that he still knows nothing about this wonderful witch, nothing except everything that matters: she is free, fresh, and fragrant, and she has made him whine.

When the dawn comes, bathing the room in muted, juicy light, Draco watches not the rising sun but Rose's face, still and soft with sleep.

He smiles and doesn't think beyond this moment, suspended in heat and hope.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Sunset (The Tequila Sunrise Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12041436) by [Dancingsalome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancingsalome/pseuds/Dancingsalome)




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